Perfection is God's Business
by hopefulwriter27
Summary: Six months after Dean left Dexter bleeding, the serial killer finds him. Evil!Dean and evil!Sam. Sequel to The Perfect Man.
1. Chapter 1

**Title: ****Perfection is God's Business (And Sam Winchester's, the Anti-God) Part 1/?**

**Author**: hopefulwriter27

**Rating**: R

**Pairing**: Sam/Dean, Dean/Dexter

**Summary: **Six months after Dean left Dexter bleeding, the serial killer finds him.

**Author's Notes & Warnings: **This is a sequel to The Perfect Man. Read that first. Also, none of the Supernatural or Dexter characters belong to me. Note, this is a dark fic! There will be graphic violence and death. Evil!Sam and evil!Dean.

**Part 1 (1,840 words)**

Six months after Dean left Dexter bleeding, the serial killer finds him. It's a Thursday afternoon and Dean's busy scarfing down tacos from a vendor in the park. The sky's overcast, and like most November afternoons in Miami, it's about to rain. Despite the oncoming precipitation, the park is crowded. A concrete boardwalk follows the curves of the beach; past the boardwalk lays littered sand and green-blue ocean. The water is rough today and large whitecaps crash into the beach.

A few tanning addicts are spread out on towels. Dean spent the better part of an hour checking out the hot girls in bikinis before his stomach rumbled and he wandered over to the taco stand. Currently, Dean's sitting at one of the eight picnic tables spread across the small grass clearing. It's late enough that the lunch crowd is over; there is only one other man in the picnic area. He's reading a giant paperback that looks boring as hell to Dean. Mostly, people are jogging, walking or biking along the path. There's a constant flow of movement, a feeling of peaceful energy in the park. It's become his favorite place to visit while Sammy's in school.

Dexter slides into the seat across from him and Dean has a moment to think, _I guess the public park isn't the best place to hang out, _and then Dexter conversationally says, "You're a hard one to find Dean." The last bit of taco falls from Dean's fingers and tumbles onto the wooden table below. His gaze darts around and though Dean knows he's in shit, he takes comfort in the fact there are so many others near.

"Yeah? Well, I've been around," Dean states, voicing a confidence he doesn't feel. He picks at a lose splinter sticking out of the tabletop. He takes in Dexter. The man looks surprisingly good. His hair's a little shorter, but Dean supposes that's because they had to shave it to give him stitches. He has no visible scars. The skin of his face is smooth and tan; there are no little pink lines marking the places where the glass sliced. _He must have had a great plastic surgeon, _Dean thinks. _Or great genes._ He's slightly disappointed. _He probably has a scar under his hair._ Dexter sports a dark pair of sunglasses and a smug smirk.

"I'd thought you skipped town," Dexter says. That this would have been the smart thing to do is left unsaid. Dean never claimed to be smart. "But then five days ago I decide to come get a hotdog for lunch, and who do I see in the very same park?" Dexter pauses, taps the table then points at Dean. "You."

Something hops inside Dean's stomach. He's not sure if it's excitement or fear. Possibly both. "What can I say? I like the food." Dean gives Dexter a sideways grin. Inside, he's worrying. _What's he going to do? _Dexter doesn't seem to be armed, but Dean knows that looks can be deceiving. He doesn't know what Dexter knows. _Has he followed me home? Does he know about Sammy? _That sends a jolt of fear through his veins. Dexter doesn't seem the type to hurt innocent boys, and God knows, Sammy pulls off innocent boy like a pro. Besides Dean and the animals, no one else knows what Sammy is capable of. Dean, on the other hand, makes people wary. He's only sixteen, but he can't pull off innocent. Sexy- not a problem. Dangerous- in one easy breath. Innocent- maybe in his sleep.

_He would have broken into the apartment if he followed me home. He would have come at night, in the cover of darkness, to hunt me down if he knew where I lived, _Dean thinks. The fact that Dexter has approached him at the park makes Dean think that Dexter's been waiting for him to come back. "You've been waiting for me to show up."

"I knew you would. You're a creature of habit." Dean doesn't understand how Dexter knows this, but it's true. After he had confessed everything to Sammy, they sat down and had a conversation about what to do next.

"You need to lay low," Sammy had said. Dean nodded. Sammy chewed on his bottom lip. "Maybe we should move cities."

"No way, you love Miami!" Dean said. "Besides, you only have a month of school left. You need to at least finish out the year." Sammy didn't bring up the dozens of times they had changed schools through the years with Dad. Dean didn't bring up that Dexter lives in Miami.

"Dexter _will_ be in the hospital for a while," Sammy conceded.

"Yeah. So I'll lay low, you'll finish out school, and we'll figure out what to do then?" Sammy agreed on the plan. School rolled to an end, and Dexter was nowhere in sight.

"He's out of the hospital," Sammy said out of the blue one sunny day while swimming at the pool. "He's living with his fiancé and her kids. He doesn't seem to be looking for you." Dean hadn't asked how Sammy got the information. Dean wondered if Dexter thought of him.

The two brothers took a road trip to Disney World and spent a week riding roller coasters, eating funnel cakes, and getting sunburned. Dean complained about his million freckles and Sammy laughed. They drove around, stopped for Dean to hustle in bars and pool lounges, and gone to exactly twenty three movies. Dean had blown five random strangers in alleyways and watched as Sammy killed three raccoons and one dog. Eventually, the summer came to an end. Sammy got a letter detailing his seventh grade book list. They went Barnes and Nobles to buy the books and to Target to get Sammy some new clothes and a package of sweet-ass highlighters. There was no discussion of leaving Miami.

Dean stares at Dexter, unsure of what to do next. Dexter says, "I'm going to get up and walk to my van. You're going to come with me." There's a hint of monster that lies beneath that white, middle-class face.

"No way!" Dean quickly glances at his watch. Two-fifty-two. Sammy gets out of school at three-thirty.

Dexter notices the glance. He lifts an eyebrow. "You have somewhere to be? A parent coming home from work?"

Dean says nothing. _I could make a run for it, _he thinks. _Dexter probably can't run as fast as me. _Dean looks at Dexter's long legs folded under the table. _I could scream. Dexter works for the police; he can't afford the attention of an accusing teen. _Dean nibbles on his lip. He really doesn't want to bring attention to himself. He doesn't know what type of evidence Dexter has on him from the boat. Dean remembers cleaning up after himself, but he knows he didn't do the best job. He had been in a hurry at the time. Dean's feet tap impatiently. His arms tingle with apprehension.

Dexter startles him with the question, "Why did you let me live?" Dean still can't see the man's eyes, but from the tenseness of his shoulders and the way he's leaning forward, Dean thinks he's genuinely curious.

The clouds condense and suddenly, the sky's a lot darker. A rumble of thunder rolls through the park. Dean ignores the weather and picks harder at the table. The remains of his taco are splattered against the wood. After a moment, he says, "I think I'm a pretty simple guy." His eyes flick up to Dexter's face. The man is stoic. He continues with his eyes glued to Dexter. "I like driving and cars, sex and guns. I like blood and death. Not mine, of course." The words seem freeing, things that he's thought for years, but never said aloud. His fear evaporates. "I've been like that ever since I can remember." A droplet hits his nose; another his cheek. The storm is starting.

"I know that liking death, wanting to kill isn't normal; but being normal is something that I don't how, or want to be." Dexter shifts. "I have all these thoughts and needs. When I first saw you I knew you were like me. Seeing what you did to that man was the most freeing moment of my life." Dean lowers his eyes, lets emotion color his words. "Is it so much to ask to not be alone? Is it so much to ask to have one person who understands me?" Dean lets a tear slide down his cheek. He's grateful Dad taught him to cry.

A hand wraps around his fingers and moves him away from the splinters. Dean sees welling blood and realizes the wood had pierced his flesh. Dean looks out from under his wet eyelashes and focuses on Dexter. His sunglasses have come off- it's really too dark for them now- and he's staring at Dean with those intense hazel eyes. Rain catches in his eyebrows, his lashes on his lips. Dean flashes back to that night on the boat. He remembers the heavy trash bags filled with body parts and the room splattered with blood from the chainsaw. He can't stop himself from leaning forward and pressing his lips against Dexter's.

There's a moment of sweet pressure, and then Dexter's gone. Dean looks across the table in surprise. A faint flush brushes the older man's cheeks. "No sex," he says.

Dean's heart double beats. "What?"

"There will be no sex, nothing related to sex if we do this." Dexter's voice is calm and smooth.

"Do what?" Dean asks, smiling.

"If I take you on and teach you, let you follow me, you will obey my rules to a fault. No sex is the first rule."

Another crack of thunder is followed by a strike of lightning. The park is now empty except for the two of them. Dean barely notices the rain or thunder. "Deal!" He sticks out his hand. A small smile graces Dexter's mouth and he slides his palm along Dean's. They shake. _Besides, _Dean thinks, _sex will come. It always does. _

"Meet me here Saturday at six p.m." Dexter's hand slides away from his.

Dean nods. "Alright."

Dexter checks his watch then Dean immediately does the same. It's only three-eleven. _Only twenty minutes. _It's feels like much longer. Dexter slides from the picnic table and says, "You better get home." Sarcastic humor lilts his voice. The man turns and walks away.

"I'll see you later." He almost gives a little wave, but then remembered he isn't a little kid. _Damn, you would think I'm twelve, not sixteen, _he berates himself. He watches for a moment as Dexter walks across the field to his van. Dean feels silly for not noticing it earlier. Only when the man drives away does Dean turn and head back to the Impala. His socks squelch in his boots and mud sticks to his rubber soles.

Sammy will wonder why he's all wet, but Dean's not sure if he should tell his brother or not.


	2. Chapter 2

**Part 2**

Miraculously, there's not a cloud in the sky when Dean picks Sammy up from school on Friday. _It's the second week in November and it's eighty degrees outside. _Dean can't help but think back to all of those Novembers spent in different cities where the second week in November meant ice and snow. Kids are milling around the junior high school when Dean pulls up. Sammy's waiting for him near the curb and slides into the car seconds after Dean shifts the car to park.

He's wearing a frown. "What's wrong," Dean asks. Sammy shakes his head; he doesn't look at Dean. The buses begin to pull away, and slowly but surely the amount of preteens begin dwindle. Sammy's nose and mouth are pinched, like he smells a rotten egg. Something's wrong.

Dean reaches over and lightly tugs Sammy's hair. "Come-on moody. I can tell something's bothering you."

Sammy's shrugs him off. "Nothing." He looks out at the window and says, "Let's go to the beach."

Dean sighs but starts the engine. When his brother is like this, he just has to wait it out. Dean tries to start a conversation a few times, but his "How was school today?" and "Thanksgiving is next week. Looking forward to the days off?" are met with a curt "fine" and "sure." So he drives on in awkward silence. Traffic is heavy, and the ten mile route to the beach takes thirty minutes. By the time Dean spots the rolling waves and crowded sand, he can't wait to get out of the car.

Luck is with him, because just as he pulls into the parking lot a Buick pulls out. With the turn of the wheel he parks. He pops the trunk the same time Sammy pushes open the door. The sounds seem excessively loud. Since moving to Miami, Dean's learned to keep duffel bags filled with swim trunks, sunscreen, bug spray and beach towels in the car at all times. The bags seem lonely in the empty trunk, but Dean takes comfort in the fact that if he lifts up the fake bottom he will find a small cache of weapons, fake identities and cleaning supplies ready at a moment's notice.

Sammy yanks his duffel bag out and lunges to the men's bathroom across the lot. Dean frowns and takes out his own bag. _What gotten up his ass? _Dean thinks while locking the car. Duffel bag securely over his shoulder, he makes his own way to the restrooms. He slides into the stall next to Sammy's and changes to the sound of his brothers heavy breathing. Surprisingly, when he comes out, Sammy is there, waiting in his red swim trunks holding out a tube of sunscreen.

His eyes are lowered when he asks, "Get my back?" Dean can hear the apology in his voice and gently takes the tube. Sammy's skin is warm and dry as he spreads the thick lotion. There's a knot right between his shoulders, and Dean hands morph from rubbing to massaging. Sammy moans. "You sure are tense." The words are inviting. _Tell me what's wrong. _

The youngest Winchester slumps and releases a sigh. "Can we get some ice cream?"

_Ice cream? _Sammy is buttering him up . "Yeah." Dean holds out the tube, and wordlessly his brother takes it and spreads the chilly lotion across his back and shoulders. Dean hears the click of the cap being closed and the slide of a zipper being opened and shut. Dean flips his towel over his shoulder and heads towards the door. "Come on."

Side by side they head for the beach. The concrete sidewalk is covered with sand. Dean likes the way the tiny grains roll under his bare feet and crunch beneath his heels. There's a small ice cream stand on the left, stationed a few feet before the sidewalk ends and the beach begins. A mother and her little girl are in line before them, so Dean has time to pull out his wallet and take out a ten. _Five dollars for an ice cream cone is a crime. _He sticks his hand in the pocket of his trunks and fingers his small metal pocket knife. Dad had given it to him after his four weeks as a boy scout. Dean had loved the scouts. Camping, hiking, tying knots, and dozens of boys to kiss and grope. Fucking scout master had kicked him out. Dad had made that man sorry.

Dean imagines flipping the blade open and sliding across the vendor's throat. For being out in the sun every day, the man is amazingly pale. The contrast of his dark red blood and ghostly white skin would be beautiful. Then everyone at the beach could eat ice cream for free.

The mother hands her daughter a cone and the girl happily licks away. Dean steps up. "What'ya want boys?"

Dean raises his eyebrow at his brother. "A scoop of strawberry please," Sammy says.

"I want a scoop of chocolate." Dean has never understood why Sammy likes strawberry over chocolate. _Chocolate is the flavor of the gods. _The vendor hands over the ice cream and Dean forks over the money. The first lick sends a burst of flavor across his tongue. _Ice cream rocks._

Dean follows Sammy. His feet sink into the sand as he weaves through people and litter. Sammy finds an empty spot and spreads out his towel. Dean follow suit. Chocolate drips down the cone like blood from a wound and puddles on Dean's hand. He licks it away. He sits down first, sand soft but lumpy beneath him. When Sammy follows, he presses his foot against Dean's and lets his arm bump his brother's. It's then Dean knows whatever Sammy's angsting about doesn't spring from something Dean's done.

The sounds of the beach are soothing. Voices chatting, both in English and Spanish, come from every direction; the endless crash of waves against beach is a stream of constant noise. The sounds help fill the emptiness of Sammy's silence. A hermit crab scuttles across the edge of his towel and he flicks it away with a toe. By the time he's crunching down on the bottom of the sugar cone, he's riding a pleasant sugar high. Sammy hasn't even gotten to his cone yet. He's still licking away. Dean knows he can't make the first move, so he locks his eyes on two college-aged guys playing Frisbee near the rim of the water.

One of the guys is really good. He flips the blue disk with ease and it soars through the air in a perfect line. The other guy catches it with a laugh and shouts something in Spanish. Sweat glistens from their toned abdomens and Dean can't help but stare when the one holding the Frisbee whips his head in laughter and water flies from his shoulder length hair. Saliva floods his mouth as the image of his body pressed between the two men flashes through his mind. _One could lie beneath me as I sucked him and the other could thrust into me from behind. _Their muscles promised strength, and Dean just knows it be a wild ride.

"They're good looking," Sammy's innocent tone slashes across his fantasy. Though there's nothing in his tone to suggest jealously, Dean can see it in the lines of his brother's face.

Dean replies with a shrug, "They're okay. Nothing special." Little rivers of pink ice cream vein across Sammy's hand, but instead of licking the melted treat away he wipes it on his towel.

His brother eyes return to the Frisbee players; his gaze goes dark. He's still looking at them when he says, "I've been keeping something from you."

Dean's stomach tightens. He sucks in his bottom lip then says, "Yeah?" _Has he killed someone? Does he have a girlfriend? Is this about Dad? _Thoughts fly through Dean's mind.

He turns to Dean. "A few weeks ago I found out something about Dexter."

Air pushes from his lungs like he's been punched. "What?"

"I think I know why he tried to kill you. Why he didn't want to work with you."

Dean digs his fingers into the sand.

"Do you remember when we first moved here, how the death of Miguel Prado was in the news every five second?"

He tries to think back to then, he vaguely remembers the stories in the newspaper about the death of some bigwig. "Not really."

Sammy's tongue sneaks out and wets his lips. "Well, he was the Assistant District Attorney. He was infamous for being harsh with criminals- to the point where people began to question whether or not he was giving fair trials." Dean nods; Sammy continues. "Supposedly he and Dexter were best friends."

Dean's mouth drops. He can't imagine Dexter being best friends with anyone. "Prado was even set to be best man at Dexter's wedding." Sammy must have gotten a crick in his neck, because he turns his body toward Dean and sits criss-cross. "All of that is common knowledge; you just need to know where to look."

"Okay."

Sammy takes a deep breath. "Here's what's not common knowledge. Dexter killed Prado's brother as well as the brother's drug dealer, Freebo. Prado thought the Freebo killed his brother and help hide the fact Dexter killed the man. From what I can tell, Prado wanted Dexter to help him kill criminals. For a while Dexter went along with Prado, probably taught him things." _Just like you wanted him to teach you_ is left unsaid. "Then something happened. Prado killed Ellen Wolf, a defense attorney. From what I know, Wolf was a good girl. Save the world type."

Suddenly, pieces start falling into place. "She doesn't fit into Dexter's code," Dean whispers.

"No. She doesn't."

"Dexter killed Prado," Dean states. It seems obvious.

Sammy nods. "Yeah. I think that Dexter felt betrayed by Prado. He shared his world with him, and Prado tore it apart."

Dean imagines letting someone into his head, into his world, and having that trust betrayed. Disgust rushes through him. _I would kill them too. Torture them. _Something else nags at him. "How did you learn all of this?" Dean can't even imagine.

"Some of it by reading, going over old newspapers and police files. I also talked to some of Dexter's coworkers."

Fear slices through Dean's shock. "What? Are you nuts?" '

Sammy shakes his head. "Don't worry. I wore a disguise. Plus it's not like there's anything about me on file. No one recognized me or anything."

Dean tries to push away his discomfort. _If anyone tries anything on Sammy they're dead meat. _"So you think Dexter tried to kill me because he didn't want to let anyone else into his world? Because he had been betrayed by Prado?" He thinks back to yesterday, to the strange hope he thought he say in Dexter's eyes. _I'll have to be extra careful. Extra trustworthy. _

"Yeah." Sammy ducks his head. "I'm sorry I didn't tell you sooner. I've felt guilty for a while."

Yesterday's meeting pops into his mind, and suddenly, Dean's the one flooded with guilt. "As long as we're being chicks and spilling our guts, I have something to tell you too."

His brother's head shoots up. His eyes narrow. "Yeah?"

Dean swallows the lump in his throat. "I uh… Dexter found me in the park yesterday," he rushes out.

"I told you not to go there!" Red anger flushes Sammy's cheeks.

"I know, but you know I'm not good at listening." He tries to make light of it.

"What happened?" Sammy scoots closer.

"We talked. I think at first he wanted to kill me, but I talked him out of that." Dean smiles as if to say, _yes, I am that good. _"We have plans to meet tomorrow at six."

"Dean…" Sammy warns.

"I know the risks Sammy, but I really don't think he wants to kill me anymore. He's just as curious about me as I am about him. Trust me."Sammy eyes narrow and he scowls. He doesn't respond. Dean reaches out and clasps his shoulder. "Trust me."

"Fine," he growls, "but I want to be kept in the loop. And you can't make any big decisions without me."

"Deal." He ruffles his little brother's hair. "Come on, let's go enjoy the water."

Sammy scans the beach then settles back on Dean. "Alright."

As his toes hit the chilly water happiness bubbles in Dean's chest.


	3. Chapter 3

**Part 3  
**

"I've picked out the perfect man for you," Dexter says while handing over the last wet dish. Dean automatically runs the damp dishtowel around the plate. The taste of grilled steak hangs on the back of his tongue, and the scent of Jack Daniel steak sauce lingers in the air. The man really does love the American staple of steak and potatoes. Since their relationship began anew, Dean's had it six times.

As Dexter's words register, Dean's hands stop. "Yeah?" he asks tentatively. It's not that he doesn't believe Dexter. The other man isn't the teasing type; at least not when it comes to this. It's just that Dean's been waiting fifty-nine days for Dexter to pick out the perfect mark. Fifty-nine fucking days.

The older man turns off the running water and dries his hands on the towel hanging from the stove handle. He walks towards the desk in the living room and says, "Dry your hands." Dean quickly obeys. His eyes stalk Dexter across the room. When the man opens a desk drawer and takes out a thick manila file folder. A spike of excitement zings through Dean. Dexter nods to the cleared kitchen table. They slide into opposite chairs.

Dexter sets the folder flat on the smooth wooden surface and taps the four fingers of his left hand in quick succession across the paper. Dean eagerly reaches out to take the folder. "Nn-uh," Dexter shakes his head. "We need to go over the rules before I let you see him."

_Rules, rules, rules, _Dean silently whines. _There are too many fucking rules. I've had fifty-nine days rules!_

Dexter slides the folder closer to his chest. "If you don't want the file, that's fine by me. I can take care of it by myself."

"No!" Dean schools his face into the picture of perfect patience. At least he tries. "Rules. Not a problem." He presses his palms into the curve of the round table and lets his thumbs noiselessly tap against the smooth edge. "Well, I guess you've already done the research for this guy, so I won't be doing that part. I know he's guilty of something."

Dexter nods; his face is still as a statue. "Correct."

"So I'm going to have to study his habits, find the perfect time to lure him away from others." Dean pauses, but Dexter doesn't move or say anything. "Then I have to find a secure spot to set up. Put up plastic and set up my equipment. I need to be prepared for all possibilities." It sounds so mechanical, so boring. Dean's a spontaneous, do-as-he pleases kind of guy. He likes the slash-and-dash method. Being careful is Sammy's thing. There are more rules, a whole brain's full, but Dean figures those are the basics.

He glances at Dexter and eyes the folder. The man sighs and shakes his head, like he's regretting the day he let Dean into his life. He slides it over. Tingles prickle Dean's fingers as he takes the folder. He would like to make it special- maybe make a little speech, but patience isn't Dean's forte. He immediately flips it open.

There is a picture on top of the inch-thick paperwork. It's an eight by eleven, glossy head shot. From the shoulder up the man looks, well, old. He's got tan, wrinkled skin. _ Someone who's lived in the sun his whole life. _Salt-and-peppered hair is windblown across his head. Dean's not really into the gray thing, but he supposes it's nice and thick. _Not going bald in his age._ He has a boxed jaw and a large, strong nose. Coco colored eyes stare off into the distance. _Italian blood somewhere in there, _Dean guesses. He once had a guy from Italy. He had been lousy in bed. The thing that gets Dean though, is the expression on his face. The man's mouth is pulled back in a half-smile. His eyes are slightly narrowed, displaying a type of hunger that has nothing to do with food. It's a hunger that's as familiar as greasy hamburgers.

"Who was he looking at when you took this picture?"

Dexter's eyes turn sharp and his grin turns questioning. "How do you know he's looking at a person?"

Dean pushes out his bottom lip. Dexter's testing him. He's sick of being tested. "I just know. Now answer my question."

A flash of irritation lights Dexter's eyes. "Don't get sharp with me."

Dean huffs. "Sorry. I realize this whole student-teacher thing is hard for you. Don't get me wrong, I'm grateful for you taking me on." Because god knows, Dean needs it. "But, this isn't my first time around the block. I can recognize a predator just as well as you can."

Darkness brightens the green in Dexter's eyes and thins the lines of his mouth. For a minute, Dean thinks he's said too much. Then, Dexter says, "He's outside of a junior high school- watching a group of boys play basketball."

A burst of energy shocks Dean's stomach. A grin tugs at his mouth. He slides the picture above the folder and looks through the rest of the papers. The next page is a rap sheet. "Nicholas D'Arlo," Dean reads aloud. Mr. D'Arlo has been arrested twice for being part of a child prostitution ring, but never convicted. He spent six months in jail for assaulting his ex-wife then was released early for good behavior. There are a few more pictures, much smaller ones with Nicholas doing mundane things like eating and driving. It's not what he's doing that's of note; it's where. He's chomping down a hot dog, sitting on a bench at the playground in Pedro's Park. His red Mustang is parked on the corner of Neil and Marcum, across the street from Martin Luther King High School.

"He's a pedophile," Dean states.

"He's raped and killed at least seven boys. Probably a lot more."

Dean flips to the end of the file and find seven pictures of boys. The youngest is about eight the oldest thirteen. He looks at Nicholas' head shot again. Finally, he looks up and asks, "So what's the plan?"

Dexter smiles and leans forward to share his plan. When he's done Dean licks his lips. "So tomorrow then? When it gets dark?

"I'll see you around eleven."

***

Brick Street is a sports bar, and it's crowded for nine forty-five on a Saturday night. The front door jangles as Dean's tugs it open. He's hit with the sticky scent of alcohol and cigarette smoke the moment he steps inside. A thrum of music, whinny songs he doesn't recognizeweave around the inhabitants. The lights are dim, and combined with maroon walls the atmosphere is dark and seedy. The only thing that saves the place from being a complete dive is its size. The main room holds a dozen square tables and a long bar. Three bartenders, two female one male, run like busy bees pouring drinks. There's an empty stage with a gray flat screen hanging on the wall. _I wonder if there's a big game on tonight? _A large poster advertises karaoke Tuesday nights from eight to eleven.

Fifty feet from the door is a short hall that splits into two rooms. The first room holds another bar, a couple of booths, one large table and six or seven small hanging televisions. All of them are on, each showing a different sporting event. The smoke is so heavy there that a haze of fog pollutes the air. On the other side of the hall is a billiards room. There are four pool tables and a waist high ledge running the lengths of the room. Drinks and baskets of fries and chicken wings littered the ledge.

The clientele is older than Dean expected. From what he knows about Nicholas D'Arlo, Dean expected the man's regular haunt to be filled with barely legal college boys. He only sees one group of young men. They're crammed around a table in the main room, laughing and talking, clearly drunk. Mostly, the occupants are middle-aged, middle-class workers. There are a few men in suits, but there are far more in jeans and button-ups. Dean sees no unattached women, and the women he does see appear tough. _Dad would have liked this bar, _he muses.

Dean slides around the full tables, looking for D'Arlo. He doesn't see him the main room, so he ambles towards the other areas. Just as he's crossing the wooden frame into the hall, a hand clamps around his shoulder. His heart leaps into his throat and his hand shoots to his pocket. It's only the knowledge of the crowd that keeps him from flipping out his knife and stabbing the stranger behind him.

"How old are you kid?" a voice behind him rasps.

Dean turns and slips his shoulder from the man's grip. He's a big guy. _At least six five, two hundred fifty pounds, _Dean estimates. The man's shirt reads _Property of Brick Street_ in big black letters and he figures the man's a bouncer. "Eighteen."

The giant lifts his eyebrows. Dean scrambles to pull out his wallet. "See look." He shows the man his fake ID. The man stares at it in the dim light and hands it back to Dean with a frown on his face.

"Eighteen huh?" he questions.

Dean shrugs. "I know. I look young. Everyone says so." _At least Sammy was right about this outfit, _Dean thinks. Normally, he tried for older, but for tonight, for D'Arlo, Dean went younger. Sammy picked out his soft white v-neck sweater and his faded, pale jeans.

His brother had grumbled the whole time. "I don't like this Dean," Sammy had said after Dean had babbled out his and Dexter's plans.

"Don't worry Sammy," Dean had replied. "It's going to be fine. And _awesome_!"

"Dean," Sammy whined, "I told you Sammy's a baby name. I'm almost thirteen! I want to be called Sam."

Dean rolled his eyes. Ever since the New Year had begun, his little brother wanted to be called Sam. "Sorry. Don't worry _Sam. _It's going to be fine."

Sam huffed. "Are you going to be home Sunday?" The words were careful, like Sam was worried about the answer.

Dean patted his brother's cheek. "Of course. Who else would I want to spend my birthday with?"

Sammy gave him a hesitant smile and ran the last bit of gel through Dean's hair. "Alright , all finished."

He looked into the mirror. "Damn," Dean whistled. He never knew he could look so pure. "I'll be home before you wake up tomorrow. We'll have pancakes and bacon for breakfast then spend the whole day together. "

"You'll tell me all about it?"

"Every gory detail," Dean promised. Sam had set him off with well wishes and Dean took the Impala to the bar.

Now, at Brick Street, he hopes his look doesn't get him kicked out. The bouncer stares at him for a minute more then tentatively hands back the I.D. "No drinking," he grunts.

Dean shakes his head. "No sir. I'm just here to watch the game and play some pool."

"If I see you drinking, I'm kicking you out."

"I swear I won't be drinking."

He gives Dean a hard look that says, _You better not, _then walks away. Dean shoves the card back into his wallet and starts his mission again. There are two balding men lingering in the hall, smoking cigars and chatting. They pay no attention to him, so he ignores them. Smoke from the television room wafts out. Dean checks there first.

Nicholas D'Arlo isn't there. Dean continues on. _I hope he's in the billiards room. I don't want to wait around for him to show up. _Dexter had promised him that D'Arlo came to this bar every Friday and Saturday night. Dean had watched him here the night before. At first glance, the man isn't in the billiards room either. There are four men holding pool sticks around the first table, and two around the second. An elderly woman with gray hair stands off to the side, watching both games. _She's a shark, _Dean thinks. A pair of suits are leaning against wall near the door. Their ties are hanging loosely around their necks, and the tops of their shirts are unbuttoned.

Dean's hopes crash. _Maybe I missed him in the main room. _Dean doesn't like the idea of going back out there. _That bouncer will be watching me. _Then, in a snap, Dean catches sight of the man further down the hall. _He was in the bathroom!_

D'Arlo strolls up the hall, heading straight for him. Dean quickly smoothes down his sweater and steps back into the room. He grabs a pool stick from the rack on the wall and settles himself against the far left hand table. When D'Arlo walks in, he stops to talk with the men in suits. He says something and one of the other men slap him on the arm. He raises his beer, which Dean just now noticed, takes a sip.

_Drinking, that's good, _he observes. Smiling to himself, Dean shells out the seventy-five cents that releases the balls. They roll down their path and knock into each other as they come to the end of their trip. The noise captures D'Arlo's attention. Dean pretends not to notice the man's sharp focus and his descent over.

Dean bends over and begins to pull the balls from their long cubby hole and sets them on the table green felt of the table. His jeans pull tight over his ass. He can feel the other man's body heat before he sees him.

"Want some competition?" D'Arlo's voice is raspy. He's been smoking for a long time. The sound makes Dean shiver. It reminds him of Dad. The beer bottle has been left on the ledge.

Acting surprised, Dean straightens. "Oh," he breathes out, "you startled me." D'Arlo is in fine form tonight. A fitted dark suede jacket covers a crisp white button-up. The top four buttons of the shirt are undone, and thick swirls of black chest hair peak out. A quarter sized golden cross hangs from a leather cord. Expensive black jeans show off the man's muscled legs. There's no doubt that the man looks good for his age.

Dean lowers his eyelashes and pulls his lips into a embarrassed smile. "Sure, I'd love that." He reaches out with his empty hand. "I'm Dean."

D'Arlo can't seem to tear his eyes from Dean's mouth, but he slides his hand into Dean's anyway. "Nick." His hand devours Dean's. It's smooth and warm. When Dean doesn't pull his hand back right away, D'Arlo rubs his thumb across the curve of Dean's hand. Another little shiver takes him. D'Arlo grins.

Dean lets him pull back first. D'Arlo takes the triangle, places it on the table and stacks the balls inside. He's quick and efficient. "You play a lot of pool?"

Dean shrugs. "I've played a few times before, but I'm no expert."

D'Arlo nods. "I'll go easy on you."

He sets up the game while Dean stands back and watches. "You want to break?" he asks when he's finished.

"Sure." Dean steps forward and lets his leg brush against D'Arlo's. The balls are perfectly lined up on the opposite side of the table. Dean eyes the white ball then plops his cue down.

"Hey now," D'Arlo says. He presses his chest against Dean's back and reaches around for the cue. He smells like Ralph Lauren cologne and menthol cigarettes. "This is a gentleman's sport. You have to be gentle." His hand wraps overtop Dean's and maneuvers it around the stick. "Here," he says while guiding Dean into the correct position for the shot. The skin of the man's cheek is rough with the day's beard growth; it scratches along the side of Dean's face as he talks.

Together, they break the triangle. Balls scatter across the table, bang into the sides, and bounce away. The red and green solid balls both fall into pockets. When all of the balls stop rolling D'Arlo pulls away. "Good job," he praises.

Dean turns and gives the man a hundred watt smile. "Thanks." D'Arlo squeezes Dean's shoulder. "Let's keep playing. Maybe you can show me some more moves," Dean says through lowered lashes.

"I bet I can show you moves you've never seen before." It's not the worst corny come-on line that Dean's ever heard, but it still makes him want to laugh. Instead, he crushes the urge and sucks his lower lip into his mouth and bows his head. D'Arlo bumps his foot into Dean's.

"Do you…" Dean pretends to fumble his words. "Do you want to see my car?"

D'Arlo's eyes light up like a kid in a candy store. Dean lays his cue overtop the table. The two suits have left, and everyone else is gathered around the adjacent pool table hooting and hollering as the old lady kicks the crap out of the men. "I'd love too."

Dean gives the man a shy smile then leads him through back down the hallway, across the bar and out the front door. The night air has taken a dip in temperature, but it's still in the high fifties. Dean loves the cool air almost as much as Sammy loves the hot. D'Arlo is hot on his heels.

He's parked the Impala a few blocks away, just in case, and the walk to it is torture. Excitement builds in his chest and Dean just wants to push the man against the nearest wall, bite at his lips, and shove a gun in his stomach. Just the thought of the warm blood spreading across his own chest as they pressed together makes him hard.

"Here it is," Dean says when they come to the black beauty. He pats its side and leans his behind against the long front. The street light over head is broken and the nearest ones are far enough way that shadows can bare form. D'Arlo steps closer. He stops an inch from Dean. He places a muscled leg on either side of Dean's, barricading the teen between him and the car.

D'Arlo's hand comes up and grabs Dean's chin. His thumb presses into Dean's lush bottom lip. "It's beautiful," he says. He's not looking at the car. Dean takes a small nip at the plump flesh of the man's thumb. D'Arlo jolts. Dean can feel his erection. "How old are you?" the man rasps out.

"Don't worry, I'm legal," Dean teases. He knows it's not what D'Arlo wants to hear.

"How old?" He grip becomes harder, slightly painful.

"Eighteen." Dean states. Harsh pressure on his chin sends a sandpaper rush down his spine. "Sixteen," he whispers. _At least until tomorrow. _

The painful grip disappears. Chapped lips smash against his. D'Arlo forces his tongue inside Dean's mouth. Dean rubs his clothed erection against D'Arlo's. A loud groan rips from the man's mouth. "Let's get in the car," Dean suggests.

"Yeah." D'Arlo's voice is deep with lust.

Dean fumbles for his keys and quickly opens the passenger side door. He reaches around the seat and pops up the backseat's lock. D'Arlo doesn't wait to be asked. He climbs into the backseat pulling Dean with him. His lips find Dean's again. He tongue fucks Dean's mouth in quick, sloppy movements. "Take off your pants," Dean begs.

The man scrambles to obey. It only takes a moment of inattention for Dean grab the tranquilizer needle taped to the back dash. D'Arlo barely has time to look surprised before Dean's shoving the needle into neck. It works fast. The man is out before Dean slides needle the out.

He's breathing heavy- he's so excited- as D'Arlo slumps down. Dean touches the tip of the needle. There is a drop of blood hanging precariously from the tiny point. A shudder wracks him. He scuttles out of the car. A minute later he's in the driver's seat and has turned on the engine. He flips open his phone and texts Dexter. _Got him_, he types. He buckles his seatbelt, adjusts the review mirror to reflect D'Arlo's motionless body, and begins the ten minute drive to the abandon warehouse. Nothing could knock the smile from his face or the hardness of his arousal.


	4. Chapter 4

**Part 4**

"What the fuck?" D'Arlo mumbles as his eyes flutter open. His words stretch like gum, as if he's unsure of what he's saying. Dexter steps into the man's line of sight, slightly hovering over the long metal table and the secured body. D'Arlo squints, seemingly uncertain of what he's seeing. Dean can understand. He figures the pedophile's head is pounding, his limbs are aching, and his mouth is powdery and dry.

"Hello Nicolas D'Arlo," Dexter says conversationally. He smiles at the bound man, like he's greeting an old friend.

_He is, _Dean thinks, _he's welcoming death to the party. Kissing him on the cheek. _Dean shifts foot to foot. He's anxious for the party to start.

Dexter's expression must be terrifying, or maybe D'Arlo has come to the conclusion that being wrapped to a hard surface isn't the most promising place to be, because the man blinks then begins to struggle. His shoulders and legs jerk beneath the cellophane and air whooshes from his mouth in harsh, guttural wheezes.

Dexter smiles and drifts forward, scalpel shining in his right hand. He swings the instrument over the man's face and lets it drift until it rests between the Italian's eyes. D'Arlo follows the blade until he's cross-eyed. When the gleaming tip presses lightly into skin, D'Arlo becomes into a statue of fear. Dexter doesn't press hard enough to pierce the flesh. Dean knows splicing the cheek is the man's propensity. Dexter's other hand slides down the back of the other man's head until his whole palm is tickled by thick locks. He grips tight and forcefully cranes the man's head upward. "Look," Dexter commands.

D'Arlo's gaze pulls away from the blade and flickers across the room. He brushes past the pictures of the boys, like a man unable to face the truth. His eyes land on Dean, who is standing a few feet from the far left corner of the table. The man's eyes widen further and his mouth parts in surprised recognition. A rush of power raises the hair on Dean's arms.

Dean snakes out his tongue, a quick touch to the apex of the heart-shaped part of his mouth, and purrs, "Hey Nick." He saunters forward, rolling his hips in angled movements and steps into the path of the overhead light. The pale glow highlights the left side of his face and the fullness of his lips. He reaches out and casually touches the man's toes. "Sorry about cutting our date short," Dean says then motions to Dexter with his shoulder, "but as you can see I had a previous engagement." D'Arlo's face morphs from confused terror to understanding horror. Dexter can't decide where he wants to look. The man's eyes flicker from Dean to the pedophile.

Dean's not a man of words, so he acts instead. His butterfly touches flatten out as he skates his palms down the arch of the man's foot to his thickly furred ankles. The hair tickles his skin and Dean flicks out his tongue again. "You don't have to worry though," Dean says, his tone light. "We're still going to have fun."

He hears the crackle of Dexter's poncho as the man shifts forward. "No, please," D'Arlo cries and Dean eyes travel up the man's naked body, past his hairy legs and limp cock, tapped down by cling-wrap, over the slight bump of his stomach to finally rest on his face. Dexter's gloved hand is tilted while he presses the silver blade into the soft flesh of D'Arlo's cheek. Skin parts and blood bubbles up. Dean can't keep his mouth closed, and suddenly, he's panting like a racehorse.

Arousal rolls through him and Dean can't help but press his rising erection into the edge of the table. Dexter places a droplet of blood in the center of a transparent microscope slide then squashes the blood down with a matching plate. He holds it up to the low ceiling light, eyes soft as if he's looking at a lover, and says, "Perfect."

D'Arlo wheezes again, and Dean makes his way around the table, his thigh pressed harshly against the flat, hard edge. When he's parallel with the Italian man's head, Dean leans over the table to touch. His fingers barely graze the still bleeding wound, but it's like an electric shock to man on the table. "Open your eyes," Dean says when man is still again. When he doesn't, Dean leans forward and brings their lips together. He lets his breath ghost across D'Arlo's mouth. "Open your eyes Nick."

Irises darkened from brown to black meet Dean's, and the teenager smiles happily. His erection is making itself known, and Dean presses himself harder into the table. "Are you afraid to die?"

Fat tears cloud D'Arlo's eyes and sobs wrack his body. Dexter moves from his place at the head of the table to stand next to Dean. Long silver gleams in Dexter's hand, and Dean marvels at the knife. _It's got to be at least seven inches, _he thinks. The blade's black leather handle only adds to the simple beauty of the weapon. Bringing the knife above the bound man's heart barely stretches Dexter's arms. More than anything, Dean wants to reach out, wrap his fingers over Dexter's and end D'Arlo's life in one hard stroke.

_I promised I would let Dexter do the killing, _Dean reminds himself. Dexter's fingers tighten around the base of the blade. Saliva floods Dean's mouth, and in one, quick motion, Dexter thrusts downwards. Blood seeps over the edges of the blade, glossing over Dexter's fingers like a burbling brook. D'Arlo's crying cuts off. Dexter and Dean's heavy breathing are the only sounds whispering through the warehouse.

Dexter yanks the dagger out and the slow flowing blood becomes a gushing river. With shaky hands, Dean reaches forward and presses his fingers along the split skin. He can feel the warmth of the blood and the wet fuzz of D'Arlo's chest hair. _I wish I weren't wearing these damn gloves, _Dean thinks. He imagines the course hair sticking to his fingers and the soft places inside D'Arlo's body squishing against the pads of the fingertips. The thin layer of plastic between his flesh and the dead the body seems like a concrete block.

He can hear Dexter walk away from the table, crunching plastic under hard-soled boots, but Dean doesn't turn to look. Instead, he hops on the table, poncho bunching up under his arms and over his knees. He swings one leg over the dead body and straddles D'Arlo's waist.

"What are you doing?" Dexter's voice is dark, and Dean can hear the subtle tone of anger beneath the calm words. Dean ignores the other man and locks his thighs on either side of body beneath him. Warm, sticky blood has followed the downwards sweep of D'Arlo's chest, some trailing outwards along the strips of wrapped plastic trapping him to the table, while the tiniest bit has began to touch Dean's jeans where the poncho has ridden up. _I'll have to throw them away, _Dean concedes. He doesn't move.

The man's skin is still warm, but already the heat of fear and rushing blood are leaving the body, and Dean wishes, just for one second, that D'Arlo is still alive so he can press his own arousal against something hard. Then the screaming roar of Dexter's chainsaw slams into him, and Dean scrambles off the body. His feet have barely touched the floor when the tearing teeth of the power tool severs head from spine.

_He could have waited, _Dean thinks with a scowl. _He should have waited. _He takes a step backwards to miss being caught by the tip of the saw as Dexter tears through D'Arlo's arm. _Sammy would have waited. _Dexter finishes and cuts the engine of the saw, but Dean's ears are still roaring with sound.

A garbage bag slaps him in the face. It doesn't hurt. How can it? It's just a thin piece of plastic meant to hold one's trash. Still, as Dean grabs it before it can fall to the floor, he feels injured and slightly off balanced. He crosses his arms, slick reddened plastic sliding over slick reddened plastic, and bites out, "You almost cut me."

Dexter's shoulders stiffen and he twists his head over his shoulder to stare at Dean. The newly cleaned off knife is gripped loosely in his hand. "You shouldn't have been in the way." The older man turns back around and places his knife back into the empty slot of his splayed out weapons carrier.

Dean looks at the blood spatters that hug around the man's torso. _They almost look like thin chains_. He counts five places were the blood has curled around Dexter in thin lines and three places over his right shoulder where the gore dripped from the black lash of the chainsaws. _It's like that time San Antonio, _Dean thinks. Sammy had been four and had gotten into Dad's bloody clothes after a hunt. Dad shouldn't have left them on the floor, but the bottle of Jack Daniel's on the small night table had called his name. Dean had woken up, six o'clock in the morning, with Dad passed out, Sammy with sticky red fingers, and the beige motel wall covered in varying lengths of red lines. Dad had been super pissed, but Dean had thought it was pretty. As they had driven out of the parking lot that day, Sammy had twisted around in his seat to stare, memorized, as orange flames ate away at the motel.

"You did well." Dexter's voice cuts across Dean's memories stopping him from putting D'Arlo's last body part (a foot and a part of a calf) into the trash bag. Dean wants to accept the praise. Dad rarely praised him in a hunt. It was always, "Dean, you waited too long to strike," or "Dean, look, you left evidence here." Dean only knew he did well when Dad never said anything.

_But Dexter's not Dad, _so Dean locks his eyes onto Dexter's. The man's hazel irises look brown in the low light, but they're half lidded and crinkled at the corner. He doesn't look away. They stand like that for a moment, and then Dexter's lips quirk to the side. Dean releases his breathe and ducks his head, smiling all the while. "Thanks." They finish cleaning in silence, but every so often Dean looks Dexter's way. Sometimes Dexter looks back.


	5. Chapter 5

Sam is asleep when Dean gets home. A quick peek into his brother's room shows the younger boy splayed across his bed, blue comforter hanging precariously from Sammy's left foot. Seeing his brother in dreamland makes Dean yawn. His own unmade bed is calling his name, but as he passes by the open bathroom, Dean's reminded of the drops of blood caught at the nape of his neck and the powdery, latex feeling leftover from the safety gloves.

_Got to take a shower before bed, _he tells himself. Giving his bedroom door a lingering look, Dean sighs and steps into the bathroom. He shuts the door softly then reaches over to turn on the water. The small bathroom trashcan is lined with a tan, plastic Wal-Mart bag- completely Sammy's doing- so Dean peels off his clothes and throws them away. _I'm going to have to burn them __later__. _

The water is pleasantly hot, not burning, simply enough to flush his skin. He stands under the spray for awhile, letting the memories of the kill wash over him. It was different than he expected. The hunt had been amazing. It always is, and to be honest, it's one of Dean's favorite parts. Deciding whose life is going to end, charming them with his smile all the while knowing they'll be bleeding shells before he's finished. It's exhilarating. But, despite the fact he knew ahead of time Dexter would be the one to take Nicholas D'Arlo's life, Dean didn't like just watching.

Dexter is everything Dean imagined him to be. Smart. Sharp. Precise. Deadly. He's controlling and handsome and is the most professional killer than Dean's ever met. _Not that I've met a lot, _Dean snorts to himself. He reached forward and grabbed the bottle of shampoo. As he lathers his hair Dean compares Dexter to Dad. _Dexter doesn't want me to kill. He doesn't think I'm ready. He thinks I'll get caught. _He leaned back into the spray of the shower and closes his eyes. _Dad let me kill with him on the second hunt. He always thought I was ready. _The soap buds trail down his back and swirl around his groin. Dean shivers and slides his palm down his stomach.

_Dexter doesn't know about the things I've done. He doesn't know about all of those men I've killed. _Dad always knew everything about Dean. Well, almost everything. A boy's got to have some secrets. _If I were Dexter would I let me kill on what is my supposed first hunt? _Dean thought about it. _Probably not. _The answer doesn't make it any less annoying. Dean thinks about the way Dexter thrust the long knife into D'Arlo's heart. There had been no hesitation or doubt. Dean flashes to the way blood splurged around the edges of the knife. His hand wraps around his hardened flesh. His groan vibrates softly around the enclosed shower stall.

"Dean?"

"Shit!" Dean releases himself and grabs onto the shower curtain. He peers around the side. "Sammy. I thought you were asleep." From the looks of him- shirtless, ruffled pajama bottoms, and bleary eyes- he still is fighting off the sandman.

Sam runs a hand through his hair and says, "I heard you come in." He looks at Dean, eyes wide despite the evidence of sleepiness.

Soap suds drip into his eyes and Dean winces then wipes the shampoo away. "Hold on a sec and let me wash the rest of this gunk out of my hair." Sam nods and Dean leans back under the spray. When he's finished washing he turns off the water with a quick twist of his wrist. Sam has a towel waiting for him the moment he opens the curtain. "Thanks," he mumbles.

Dean takes his time. He pats down every wet nook and cranny he can find then wraps the damp towel around his waist and grabs another one off the rack to dry his hair. Sammy sits patiently on the toilet. Not for the first time Dean wishes that particular trait had not been passed from mother to son.

"So…" his litter brother says when Dean's at the point he can no longer justify having the towel over his head. He tosses the cloth to the floor and grins when Sammy's frowns. Dean meets his eyes then takes a seat on the edge of the tub.

"It was…" _different, crazy, exciting, annoying, bloody, _"awesome." Sammy leans forward, elbows resting on his skinny legs. Dean takes it as a cue and lets the story spill from his lips. By the time he's finished, the steam from the shower has disappeared from the mirror and the tiredness in Sammy's eyes has been beaten away by awe.

"So he cried?" Sam asks when Dean is all finished.

The eldest Winchester gives his brother a wicked grin. "He _sobbed_. Begged for his life. It was such a rush Sammy."

"Sam."

The word takes a few seconds to decipher, but when he does Dean wants to say, _Now is not the time, _and, _God, you're such a stubborn little bitch, _but he doesn't. Instead, he rolls his eyes and says, "Sam."

Sam smiles like he's won something- _which he so has not- _and says, "Stay right here." Dean doesn't have time to reply before Sam is off his perch and stomping through the apartment. From the sound of his footfalls Dean thinks his brother is heading for the kitchen, but without getting up to see he's not completely sure.

_What's he doing? _Two minutes tick to three and Dean's legs start bouncing. He's made it to the bathroom door when Sammy comes back with a small white cardboard box in his hands.

"Sit down," Sam commands with a burning fire behind his grin. Dean takes a seat on the floor, back against the side of the tub, curiosity eating him alive. "Close your eyes." He closes his eyes but almost opens them again when the light behind his eyelids suddenly disappears.

"What…" Dean begins but is cut off.

"Hold on a sec, geeze," Sam complains, and Dean closes his eyes again. He hears ruffling, the sound of the box being opened, Sam's excited breathing, and then the snick of a lighter.

_Sammy, _Dean thinks with a grin.

"Okay, open them."

Dean opens them and he locks his gaze on a small green frosted cake in Sammy's hands. 'Happy Birthday' is written in thin, black letters, and two number candles- a one in front of a seven- are pushed through the frosting in the center of the cake. Their wicks burn brightly in the dark bathroom. Pure, unpolluted pleasure rushes through Dean's veins. He lifts his stare from the birthday cake to his brother's face. Sam eyes are half-lidded and his mouth parted anxiously. _How can he think I wouldn't love this? _Dean asks himself. A heartbeat goes by and a wrinkle begins to appear above the bridge of Sam's nose. Dean laughs and reaches forward to swipe his finger through the frosting. It tastes deliciously sweet.

Sam shoulders go lax and the worry wrinkle disappears. "Dean," he whines, "I brought forks." He follows the statement by balancing the cake in one hand and reaching back to the sink to grab the forks. Dean takes one and pats the floor. Sam plops down and sets the cake between them. The flames waver with the movement of the cake and Dean can't help but stare.

"Aren't you going to blow them out and make a wish?" Sam asks.

The question resonates through Dean's mind. _What should I wish for? _He takes in his brother's eager face. Most of Sam's baby fat has melted away into jutting angles and a strong, boxed jaw. He's grown a few inches over the past few months and he's gone from annoying little kid to insightful, annoying teenager. Dean leans forward until his mouth is level with the wicks of the candles. He closes his eyes and thinks, _I wish that Sammy will never leave me. _The flames blow out with one strong gust.

When he opens his eyes again Sam's face is highlighted by the dim glow of the kitchen light from down the hall. His jaw is tense, like he's clenching his teeth, and his gaze is glued to Dean's face. The boys' breaths echo each other, easy and soft. Dean's caught in the moment, frozen like a terrified fly in a spider's web, except he's not scared. The emotion feels foreign. It's somewhere between wonder and love, respect and loyalty.

Sam's eyes trail across Dean's face and lock onto his lips. Dean's suddenly aware of how dry his lips are and he flicks out his tongue to moisten them. Sam flushes, looks down and stutters out, "So, what did you wish for?" Dean laughs and reaches over the cake to give his brother a hard hair ruffle.

"Dude, if I tell you it won't come true." Sam laughs along and rolls his eyes. Then, instead of answering he jabs his fork into the cake and brings piece up to his mouth. "Hey," Dean snaps jokingly, "It's my birthday. I get the first bite." Sighing, as if Dean's command is the most difficult thing in the world, Sam lowers his fork and waits as Dean scoops up his own forkful and stuffs it his mouth. Chocolate bursts across Dean's taste buds, making him close his eyes momentarily and moan in pleasure. _Sammy went all out, _he thinks and quickly takes another bite.

When he finally tears himself away from the cake- five giant mouthfuls later- Sam is looking at him with soft eyes. He's got a bit of cake crumble at the corner of his mouth and a smearing of green icing across his bottom lip. "It's good?" he asks.

Dean smiles, feeling more relaxed and happy than he's been in ages, and says, "It's great."


	6. Chapter 6

**Part 6**

Dean and Dexter only take one more life before Sam's birthday. Carlos Santiago is what Dean considers a typical gang-banger. He's twenty-nine and dresses in baggy pants, long t-shirts with sweat-stained armpits, gold chains hanging low against his chest, and carries around a semi-automatic pistol for scaring his peers and neighbors. He deals pot and ecstasy in the slummy clubs and dark alleyways in Little Havana. Carlos would be like every other thug in Miami's underbelly, except for one minor detail. Mr. Santiago has a passion for kidnapping pretty blonde housewives and raping them until their minds break and their bodies bleed to death.

Since the ripe old age of twelve, Carlos Santiago has been arrested no fewer than eight times on an array of charges that start with vandalism and stretch to battery and murder. He's been in prison three times, once in juvie for three years, then again at twenty one for drug possession, and lastly at twenty five for stealing a car. When Dexter gives Dean the thick file folder of Carlos's crimes and the background knowledge of what the man does, Dean almost scoffs at the ridiculousness of it all. Carlos doesn't seem like a challenge, and after a week of following the man around, Dean knows he's not. _This guy is a spineless idiot, _Dean thinks as he watches the man steal a Snickers bar and a two litter of Pepsi from the gas station at the intersection of Long Street and 18th Ave.

Still, as Dexter shows Dean each of the pretty faces Carlos has destroyed, Dean can't help but feel strange. His stomach knots up and his heart gives a stuttering patter. He chalks it up to excited. It's not until he's on the living room floor with his own copy of Carlos's file that he makes the connection.

"They kind of look like Mom," Sammy says as he spreads out all six photographs of the dead blonde women. Dean eyes flutter from his brother's scrunched up face to the photos on the floor. Each image was taken at the woman's best, provided to the Miami P.D. for reference when they went missing and then were eventually found. All the women could have been related. Soft blonde hair, sunshine kissed and gleaming fell around narrow faces and thin shoulders. Pale white skin- the kind that burned then freckled in the blazing sun- lay ink free and carefully conditioned in each captured moment. Dean's fingers drift over Emily Shaffer, the first victim, and he gently picks it up.

He stares at her smiling face, ignoring the presence of her husband beside her, and takes in the love that shines through her eyes. A vision of Mom, tall and pale and sweet, floats past his eyes. Dean may have only been four the last time he saw her, before she burned in the fire, but he can remember her clear as day. He remembers that she smelled like clean linens fresh from the wash and always had a piece of warm pie ready for him and Dad whenever they felt blue.

Tears prick the corner of his eyes and Dean quickly blinks them away. Fingers touch his leg. "Hey," Sammy says. He's crawled over the pictures and two of them are bent where his boney knees pressed them into the carpet. His hazel eyes bore into Dean, and Dean turns his head to stare past the living room into the kitchen. Thin rays of pink and orange sunshine stream low through the window above the sink. It's early, he and Sam haven't had dinner yet, and despite the fact it's early April, the lengthening days are still short.

"Hey." It's still said softly, but a hint of force colors the word the second time around. His neck feels stiff, but Dean manages to face his brother. Sammy is leaning forward, his mouth parted, looking like he wants nothing more than to wrap his arms around Dean.

"Dude," Dean snaps and flips the picture of Emily Shaffer to the floor.

Sam watches it flutter then turns back to Dean. Slowly, as if Dean were a skittish colt, lowers himself to the floor, resting on his side and bracing his head in the palm of his hand. His knees are slightly bent and brushing against the side of Dean's leg. Sam pats the ground with his free hand. "Tell me about Mom?"

It's not the first time Sam's asked. _And it won't be the last, _Dean thinks. Mom has always been a taboo topic in the Winchester family. Dad would be furious when Sam asked, and unlike Dean, who only asked once then learned his lesson with a black eye and spilt lip, Sam kept asking, again and again. _Stubborn is his middle name. _Usually Dean just redirects his little brother's attention to something else. School work, trivia questions, knives or lighters.

He opens his mouth to do the same today. Nothing comes out. He looks around the living room, at the pictures on the floor then again at Sammy. Swallowing back the lump in his throat Dean lowers himself next to his brother. He shuffles until he lays flat on his back and uses his arms to cushion his head. He traces the popcorn ceiling with his eyes and begins to talk. "I remember when she brought you home from the hospital," Sam wiggles closer until Dean can feel the pressure of Sam's body against his. Sammy's hair tickles his chin but the weight of his head feels good against his chest so Dean doesn't move. He imagines Sammy's smile, pure and sweet, but he doesn't turn to look. He just continues on, sharing his memories.

By May 6th, four days after Sam's fourteenth birthday, Carlos Santiago is a corpse decomposing in the ocean and Dean is excitedly waiting for Sam's school day to be over. He's planning a night filled with burritos and Top Gun movies. The sun is shining high in the sky and there are hundreds of kids wearing shorts and tank tops outside the junior high. Bon Jovi is playing on the radio and Dean taps his fingers to the beat against the steering wheel. Two girls wearing gemmed flip flops and glittery lip gloss stroll over to his open window and lean against the car. A flare of annoyance flashes through Dean's brain but then the blonde one bends down to rest her forearms against the window frame and Dean can see straight down her shirt.

"Nice car," she says. Her blue eyes rake across his face and Dean gives her a wicked smile.

"Yeah," he says patting the dashboard. "She's my baby." The girl giggles and glances at her friend. The dark skinned girl comes closer. "I'm Sophie and this is Parvati."

Dean leans his head out the window. "Hey, I'm Dean."

Parvati smiles, her white teeth a stark contrast to her black skin and says, "I've seen you here a lot. Do you go to Lincoln High?" She's got a hint of a Cuban accent. Nothing special around Miami.

_It's been three years since the last time I've gone to school, _Dean thinks with a grin. Hell, the only reason he had made it through school as long as he did is because of Sammy. His brother loves school and has always made Dean feel guilty when he didn't go. Then one day Dean just decided to stop attending despite Sam's evil looks. After one argument, Sam never said anything again. "I'm out of school," Dean tells them.

The girls share a look and give him wider grins. "That's cool," Sophie says. She runs her hand through her hair, reminding Dean of Sam. "So what do you do?"

Dean reaches out and runs the tip of his finger along Sophie's knuckles. "Oh, a little bit of this and little bit of that." Her whole face turns red and Dean feels a rush of desire. Parvati suddenly looks worried and Dean thinks, _she's the smart one. _Sophie starts talking, and Dean pretends to listen. He's all smiles, but he's thinking about ways to separate the girls. He's just about to ask Sophie for her phone number when he spots Sam out of the corner of his eye.

His brother has a busted lip and one eye is swollen shut. "Excuse me," he says to the girls and backs the car from his parking spot, uncaring that they were still leaning against the metal.

"Hey!" he hears one of the girls exclaim, but he ignore them and meets his brother near the sidewalk.

Sam yanks open the door and throws himself inside. "Jesus, what the hell happened?" Dean shouts.

"Drive," Sam growls.

"Who the fuck hit you?" Dean demands.

Sam stares forward, whole body tight and stiff and barks, "I want to go home." Dean rakes his eyes across the school yard looking for anyone who might be responsible for his brother's state. Everyone looks guilty and he wants nothing more than to run everyone down. Sam pounds his fist onto the dash and says, "Now Dean."

Anger charges through him and Dean roars the Impala from the school's property. He's lucky there are no cops around because his license (already illegally gained) would be taken away. The ten minutes drive back home only takes five, and the moment the engine is cut Sam is out of the car storming toward the apartment. Dean locks the doors and hurries to catch up to his brother.

"Sam," Dean shouts when the front door shuts behind him. His brother's backpack is slumped against the wall and the shoeprints in the carpet lead to Sam's room. Sam's door is closed but Dean doesn't let that stop him from barging inside. His brother is already at his desk powering up his laptop. "What's going on?"

Sam twists in his chair, spats out, "Nothing," and twists back. Dean lunges forward, wraps his hand around the back of the chair, and spins Sam around to face him.

"Nothing?" Dean snaps

Sam huffs and snarls, "I got in a fight. End of story. I don't want to talk about it."

Dean's fingers tighten around the chair. "You got in fight? Who the fuck hit you? I'll kill them!" The chair pushes into him as Sam stands up.

"God damn it Dean! Not everything is about you." Dean reaches forward to grab Sam's shoulder, but Sam pulls out of the grip.

With his fists curled at his side, Dean shouts back, "It's about me when someone hurts you."

Fury clouds Sam's eyes and in a low, even voice he says, "I can take care of myself. I'm fourteen. When you were fourteen you had been fucking and killing for years with Dad." Dean's heart drops to his stomach and he steps back into the chair. Sam doesn't seem to notice -or care- about his discomfort. "Jesus Dean, when are you going to realize I'm not a little boy anymore?"

As if Sam's words are a switch, Dean suddenly sees him. He see's Sam's long arms and even longer legs. He see's Sam's thin face; the baby fat has melted away into lean muscle. Sam's grown three inches in the past six months and doesn't seem to be stopping anytime soon. _He'll be taller than me, _Dean thinks in awe. His hair is still long, but Dean can make out just the hint of stubble along his jaw and knows that he'll be teaching his brother to shave very soon.

The realization leaves him reeling. Everything seems to shake and a wavy of dizziness leaves him swaying. Sam steps forward, concern washing away anger, and says, "Dean…" Dean can't stand the look. He lurches forward, past Sam, into the hallway. "Dean," Sam calls out again.

Dean ignores him. _Fine, _he thinks stomping to the living room. _If Sam thinks he can do everything on his own… fine. _He grabs his keys from where he had tossed them on the kitchen table and leaves without saying anything at all. Even the smooth, warm seats of the Imapla bring no comfort. He drives out of the parking lot knowing that Sam is probably standing at the front door. Dean doesn't look back.

_Fine. _


	7. Chapter 7

**Part 7**

Dean drives the whole way to Dexter's feeling like a storm is brewing inside of him. The sky has gone dark with rain clouds by the time he survives downtown traffic and pulls into the apartment complex. Humidity clouds the air making each inhale feel like he's taking in sticky steam. The weather matches his mood completely. He practically runs down the outside corridor to Dexter's end apartment, the need to see the older man overwhelming. His legs are jittering as he rings the bell.

No one answers. It's five-fifteen Thursday afternoon and Dean's pretty familiar with his mentor's schedule. _He should be home. _Dean rings the bell again and follows up with a loud knock. Impatient, he presses his face to the window by the door. The blinds are half shut, blocking long strips of the inside. However, with the darkening sky, what the blinds don't hide Dean can see pretty well. The apartment looks empty.

Oh, he can still make out Dexter's desk and the small, round kitchen table, but everything else is gone. The leather couch and loveseat that Dean fawned over the first time Dexter had let him inside is absent. There is a large rectangular square of slightly discolored paint where the snapshot of Miami's nightlife once hung over the couch. Dean twists to the edge of the window so he can get a glimpse of the kitchen counters. Dexter's expensive coffee maker is gone, as is his four-slotted toaster and three hundred dollar knife set. The granite counter top looks wiped clean and desolate.

_Dexter hasn't been here in weeks._ Dean chest contracts and suddenly he can't breathe. _First Sammy, now Dexter? _He bows over, grasping his knees for support and drags in breath after breath. Thunder booms, shaking the wooden beams beneath his feet, and lightening cracks across the sky. Heavy drops of rain begin to fall. Dean shakes his head, _No, this can't be right. _

It's only been eight days since Dean last saw Dexter. The past week has been devoted to Sammy's birthday, but before that he and Dexter had met at a hotdog stand near the Bayside Market. Sure, Dexter had seemed preoccupied, but Dean just figured the man had been busy at work. _But when's the last time you've been here? _Dean asks himself then answers, _the night before we killed Carlos Santiago. _Twenty-two days ago. _Maybe he's just getting new furniture. _The though brings a flare of hope and Dean reaches into his back pocket for his lock-picking kit. He's inside the apartment in under a minute.

Dean walks in, shutting the door behind him. The dim outside light disappears, casting even more shadows and darkness throughout. He makes a beeline for Dexter's bedroom. The door creaks open and before he sees anything Dean knows Dexter is gone. _He'd never let the hinges rust. Dexter is a control freak; a neat freak. He'd make sure the doors opened effortlessly and quietly. _It's empty. No bed. No dresser. Dean strides forward and yanks open the closet.

"What the hell?" There are no clothes, no rack of shoes, no hangers. But there is a chest. _Dexter left his kill chest behind?_ Dean drops to his knees and tries to lift the lid. It's locked. Luckily, locks are his specialty. It only takes a second longer than the front door to open. The chest appears to be filled with lifetime mementos. Pictures, clothes, knickknacks and even a small blanket. Dean knows better. He feels for the trick latch at the back of the chest and when he finds it he lifts out the misleading items.

In the false bottom of the chest lie Dexter's true treasures. Deadly knives in varying sizes, needles, bottles of clear tranquilizer fluid, and gloves. The only things missing are Dexter's trophies. Dean knows that the killer has a box of them- microscope slides tinted with blood. He just doesn't know where the other man keeps them. _Probably wherever the fuck he is now. _

His anger rushes back in, and Dean slams the chest shut without putting anything back. _So what if someone find it. I don't care. _Despite the fact a few of Dexter's things are still here, it's obvious the man has moved. _How dare he?_ Dean thinks and gives the closest door a furious kick. The door shudders and the sole of Dean's boot leaves a black streak across the white paint.

_I've followed his fucking rules. Followed his fucking directions. And he does this. _Another explosion of thunder roars over the building and suddenly the apartment seems to be closing in on him. _I need to get out of here. _

Dean leaves, not bothering to lock the door. _Dexter can fucking fix it when he gets back. _The moment he's out from the apartment building's overhang the rain is soaking him. He fumbles the Impala's keys and it takes two tries to get the door unlocked. _If he comes back. _Dean doesn't want to dwell on that thought, so he slides into the driver's seat not caring that he's wet.

The crushing pressure in his chest doesn't disappear. He yanks the door shut, turns on the car, and twists the volume knob as high as it will go. Nirvana screams through the speakers, and Dean just can't stand the sound. The music cuts out and Dean's finger aches from the force he used to turn it off. Rain pours down and lightening lights up the sky. Nothing makes sense and all Dean can feel is anger.

_Fuck this. If Dexter can change the rules so can I. _It's been eight months since Dean began this thing with Dexter and he's only killed twice. It's been eight months and two overly planned kills and no sex mixed with blood. _Time for that to change. _

Dean parks the Impala at a strip mall and walks nine blocks until runs into his first prostitute. She's in her mid twenties with ratty hair, a red bikini top and pair of dirty jean shorts. Red lipstick is smeared across her mouth and fine needle marks shadow the bends of her inner arms. Dean passes her by; female is not what he's looking for.

The first male whore he finds in on block eleven. It's a kid, not much older than Dean himself, if at all. Rain has slicked back his medium length blonde hair and has glued his ripped jeans to his boney frame. His dark pink nipples are hard and contrast against his pale, shirtless chest. Dean's pulled out his wallet by the time he's three feet away. "I'll give you twenty for a blowjob," Dean says. He flashes the bill because he's not sure he's been heard over the roar of the rain and thunder.

Blondie nods and holds out his hand for the cash. Dean waves the bill then nods towards the alleyway. He gets a nod back and Blondie turns to walk into the darkness. Dean glances around, double checking that their alone. _People are trying to stay out of this shit, _he thinks as the rain stings his face. There are two deserted cars parked down the street, and an abandoned gas station down the other way. Otherwise, this area only holds evacuated warehouses and the drunken, drugged souls of the street. It's perfect.

The moment the shadows of the alleyway swallow the light, Dean is pulling the whore towards him. He forces his tongue against the other boy's mouth and fucks his way in. Blondie pulls back in protest but Dean grabs his long hair forces their mouths together. He uses his other hand to slip the money into the boy's waistband, making sure the rough paper brushes against flesh.

The touch of the money must have brought comfort, because Blondie stops struggling and kisses back. His mouth is fire and Dean moans into it. He walks them backwards until he feels the concrete wall of the building against his back. Dean smiles into the kiss and twist them around until he's forcing the other boy against the wall. Their erections brush and when Blondie wiggles Dean finally releases him.

Dean can feel the heat of the other boy's body and smell the rum on his breath. He watches as Blondie takes the money and shoves it in his back pocket. Payment secure, the whore reaches forward and unbuttons Dean's jeans. Calloused fingertips slip beneath his waistband and stroke down his erection. Pleasure washes through Dean's limbs. He widens his stance and watches as the boy slides down to his knees. Blondie frees him then wastes no time wrapping a hand around his shaft and slipping the head into his mouth. Hotness shocks it way up through his body until Dean's tingling everywhere.

Dean doesn't last long. Lightening gives a startling flash across the sky, illuminating the boy's lips stretched around him for one brilliant second. The familiar clenching of his heart and groin snaps Dean into action. He opens the gate of anger he's been feeling all day, letting it roar through his brain and mix with the pleasure. His pocket knife comes easily from his jeans and flips open just as effortlessly.

Blondie doesn't even have time to look up before Dean's pulling from his mouth and spraying across his face. He doesn't have time to look surprised as Dean slashes through his neck and blood is mixed with semen. The look of horror on the prostitute's face sends another twinge through Dean's cock. He wraps his own hand around himself and strokes softly. A shudder wracks through him.

He stands there letting the rain fall on him, silently stroking until Blondie bleeds out. It takes about five minutes and sadly, most of the blood is gone by the time Dean zips himself up. _Stupid rain, _Dean thinks, but doesn't really feel. He's more buzzed than he's been in ages, and all of his earlier anger has swirled down the sewer drain along with Blondie's blood.

_This is what it's about, _Dean thinks as he wipes his blade on Blondie's pants. _Sex, death, spontaneity. None of this preparing for weeks shit. _Dean strolls back to the Impala, shoulders held high and grin on his face. The streets are empty and he wonders how long the rain will last.

He sings to AC/DC on the way home, planning all the way how he's going to share with Sammy and make everything alright. Thinking is easier, and Dean suddenly knows that Sam's right. His brother is growing up and Dean can either be part of it or not. _Like it's even a choice. _

The roads are slick, but Dean gets home safely bringing a bag of chimichangas as a peace offering. "Sam," he calls out the moment he opens the front door. His brother doesn't respond and Dean rolls his eyes at the stubbornness. "Sam, I want to talk to you," he calls out again. "I've brought food."

Nothing.

Sighing, Dean drops dinner off at the table and toes off his boots at the mat by the door. The lights are on in the kitchen and down the hall so Dean heads for Sam's room. "Hey," he knocks on the door, "I'm sorry. You were right. Don't be mad at me." The door inches open and Dean sticks his head in. "Sam?"

He's not there. Dean's stomach seizes and his heart forgets to beat. "Sam!" he shouts then tears through the house. Each room is empty. "This isn't funny Sam. Where the hell are you?"

Dean stumbles back into the living room and stares at where his wet clothes have dripped water onto the carpet. The world dips to the side and nothing makes sense.

His brother is gone.


	8. Chapter 8

**Part 8**

Dean has his shoes back on in a matter of seconds. He's pressing one on the speed dial. Sam's friendly voice chirps to leave a message. He hangs up then dials again. "Sonofabitch!" Rain pours down as he marches his way back to the Impala. He searches for Sam until the sun rises. He goes to all of Sam's haunts- the library, school, all three local parks, even the beach. No Sam. His brights are on as he drives slowly through the city, uncaring that he's blinding other drivers. Finding his brother is the only thing that matters. He fills Sam's voicemail with phone messages ranging from frantic, worried pleas to angry, cursing demands. Sam never calls back, and eventually the inbox fills. Dean can't leave anymore messages, so he just continues calling, hoping his little brother will pick up.

He stops back home twice to check if Sam's returned. He hasn't. The second time Dean does a sweep of every nook and cranny of the place, just in case Sam's fell sick under the bed or behind the couch. He hasn't. Dean does find the empty place where Sam's backpack once rested and one less bottle of lighter fluid in the utility closet. He goes back out and widens his search by twenty miles. No Sam. Finally, the adrenaline wears off and the day's events begin to take their toll. Orange-yellow lines of light appear in the horizon. Dean can barely keep his eyes open. He turns the Impala around and drives back. It's only minutes before he's collapsed in the arm chair, shoes still on, fast asleep.

He dreams of darkness. It's not something he's usually afraid of; darkness has always been a blessing for Dean. It means the smell of sex, the thrill of blood, and the sweet joy of death. Darkness means hunting and family. But today Dean is stuck in a giant, endless box of nothingness where darkness is cold, empty and devastatingly lonely.

"Sammy!" He calls out, running through the abyss. "Sammy, where are you?" _If only I can find Sammy everything will be alright. _The thought circles through his mind in a continuous loop. His voice goes hoarse, but he continues to shout. Dream days go by until Dean's legs have given out and he's crumpled to the ground. His throat has closed up, swollen and sore, and his eyes are not much better. _Sam. Sam. Sam. Sam. Sam. Sam. _

"Dean?" He thinks he imagines it at first, but then he hears it again. "Dean."

_Sammy?_

"Dean wake up!" Fingers wrap around his shoulder and give a little shake. Dean snaps awake.

At first he doesn't know what he's seeing. His eyes are crusted over with sleep and his brain is clouded with fatigue. But the fingers on his should tighten and then he doesn't have to see, he _knows_. "Sammy," he whispers, like if he says his brother's name too loud Sam will disappear.

"Why are you sleeping in the chair?" Sam asks.

Dean blinks then really sees his brother. Sam's soaking wet, hair and clothes matted to his skin. His toes are shoeless and they look pink in the low light from the kitchen. He's still looking bad from his earlier fight. Right eye swollen shut and a deep shade of purple, Dean can image how it throbs. Sam's lip isn't much better. The dried blood from earlier is gone, but his puffy bottom lip is scabbed over. It looks tender and raw and utterly painful.

"Where the hell have you been?"Dean shouts.

"I left you a note." The words seem innocent, but they enrage Dean.

"No you fucking didn't. I looked everywhere for you." He curls his fingers into fists. "God damn-it Sammy, I thought you had run away." _I thought you had left me._

"I'm sorry you worried, but Dean, I left you a note on the refrigerator."

Dean eyes flicker to the fridge, where no notes rest. Then his gaze drifts down. The corner of a piece of yellow paper sticks out. He expects more anger, but all he feels is relief. "God Sammy." Dean practically falls out of the chair as he leaps up. His arm is tingling from where he'd slept on it, and he feels like _he_ is the one that is beat up. The feelings don't matter. He throws his arms around his brother and yanks hard enough that Sam stumbles forward into his chest. Sam's wet shirt presses into him and it's only a matter of seconds before Dean can feel the warm moisture against his own skin.

The pads of Sam's palms come to rest under his shoulder blades. Hugs have been rarely lately, what with Sam's independent streak and Dean's preoccupation with Dexter, but the feeling of his brother under his arms and Sammy's girlie hair tickling his nose is something Dean will never forget. Emotion bubbles up under Dean's lungs making it hard to breathe. He pulls his brother even closer and rests his forehead against Sam's collarbone.

He breathes Sammy in. He smells fire. It's not completely unusual because Sam does have a fondness for flames, but the scent of burnt flesh under the smoky ash takes Dean by surprise. He breaks the embrace, ignoring the way Sam's grip grows tighter before finally letting Dean step back. He snaps, "Where have to been? What have you been doing Sammy?"

Sam ducks his head, looking like a shy school boy. A spike of anger stabs through Dean's nerves and he's about to turn snapping into yelling when Sam looks up. The anger dies. The fear of losing Sammy dies. Strange wonderment takes their place. Sam looks electrified. His smile is knowing and sharp. His cheeks are rosy, as if it's Christmas Eve in New York City, and he and Dean are outside under the Rockefeller Center tree. Energy hums under Sam's skin and for one entranced second Dean reaches out to touch him. Just before his fingers brush Sam's face, his brother's one good eye blinks. Dean's heart jumps and he pulls back.

Sam laughs. It's a deep throaty sound that fills the room. It leaves Dean confused and the anger shudders back in place. His mouth tightens and Dean growls, "Sam…"

Lips smash into his. Dean flounders. He can't breathe and the world is spinning. He can feel the rough edges of Sam's scab. Heat and pleasure spread from his mouth down his neck and swirls around his chest. The tip of Sam's tongue touches his lip and Dean tries to stop the kiss. Sam's grabs the front of his shirt, twisting the cloth between his fingers, and holds Dean still. The tongue doesn't return but Sam's lips move against his.

The world narrows to that moment- to Sam's lip, his taste, his smell. Dean feels like he's about to float away and Sam is only his anchor. He clutches his brother's shoulders and presses harder with his mouth. A hand grabs the back of his head and suddenly Dean thinks, _this is your little brother, _and he twists his neck breaking the kiss.

This time Sam doesn't try to force their lips back together, but he doesn't move away either; their bodies are still pressed together. Dean can feel his brother's desire pressing hard against his hip. During the kiss Sam had wedged his knee between Dean's thighs and press of the strong flesh is still making Dean squirm. Their faces are nearly touching; Sam's hot breathes are ghosting along Dean's cheek.

"I have something to show you." The words seem loud despite Sam's low whisper. When Dean turns, Sam is standing so close that his nose brushes against his brother's cheek and mouth. A shiver takes him and Dean inhales deeply. Sam smiles again, the same knowing grin as before, and Dean thinks,_ he's going to kiss me. _Dean doesn't move away, but Sam surprises him by reaching between them and threading his fingers with Dean's. He turns, tugging Dean along. "Come here."

Dean allows Sam to drag him the few steps to the coffee table. Their hands stayed twined as the youngest Winchester bends down to pick up the remote. The television clicks on and Sam flips through the stations quickly until he begins hitting the news stations. Dean looks at the clock above the stove. It's already seven. _That means I was only asleep an hour or so. _Sam stops on channel seven, FOX. He turns up the volume.

"The fire that burned down two warehouses this morning has finally been put out," Richard Lemus, a local tv anchor, says gravely on the screen. "The body of an unidentified teenage boy has been found inside the wreckage. Here's our investigator Carmel Cafiero with Jordan Halferd, Miami's Fire Marshall." The shot goes from inside the television studio to outside the warehouses. Smoke is still thick in the air.

"Was this fire set by an arsonist?" Carmel asks.

Jordan nods, his large helmet moving with him. "It was. There is definite evidence of foul play."

"Do the people of Miami have reason to be worried?" the reporter asks.

"Well, people should always be prepared for a fire, and if anyone ever sees any sign of somebody too interested in fire they should contact their local fire station or police. However, in this case the preliminary evidence suggests that the fire was probably started by the boy we found. Many young males, especially those with behavior disorders, play with fire. This time, the fire got out of hand and killed the young man."

The reporter and the fire Marshall continue talking, but Dean's attention is already back on Sam. "What does this have to do with you?" he questions, but a sneaking suspicion is already upon him.

"His name was Robert Cummings," Sam states. He's staring at Dean's lips again, and Dean unconsciously flicks out his tongue to wet them. Sam's fingers tighten around Dean's.

"Who?"

Sam answers, "The boy they found, his name was Robert Cummings." Sam pauses, like he waiting for Dean to say something, but Dean remains quite. Sam looks Dean straight in the eyes and says, "He went to my school."

A mix of excitement and fear trickles into Dean throat. His voice is gravel when he asks, "He the one that knocked you around?"

Sam's mouth quirks to the side and he raises one eyebrow. "He won't do it again."

_No he fucking won't, _Dean thinks as his previous anger over Sam's injuries returns. Then the anger fades and pride takes its place. _Sammy murdered that boy. _Dean's eyes widen in realization.

"They won't find any evidence to me." Sam adds. He rubs his thumb in circles in Dean's palm. "Two buildings burned to the ground, a cloud of black ash in the air, and it all will point to Robert." He twisted his body around until his shoulders are bumping Dean's again. Sam leans forward, pressing his cheek against Dean's. "I hunted him." The words caress Dean's skin. "I covered his face with bag until each breathe was a struggle. His dead body slumped against mine and the weight felt amazing." Dean shudders. "Then I dragged him to the warehouse and set up the fire." Sam turns his head and presses his lips lightly against Dean's stubble. "The flames burned so bright."

Sam mouths his way down Dean's jaw then back up until he's brushing his brother's lips again. Dean can't move, can't think. This time Sam's kiss is light, barely there. Little wheezes escape Sam's mouth, and Dean can feel his brother's body trembling.

_He's still a kid. _The thought sneaks through Dean's mind. "Sammy, I don't think…"

Sam shuts him up with a deeper kiss. "Please," he begs, "please. This is all I want."

Dean's aroused and confused. The television is still on, showing picture of the fire. Sammy still smells like ash, but now there's a hint of something else. It's musky and hot, and Dean easily recognizes it. _Sex. My little brother smells like sex. _The thought leaves him uncomfortable. Sam teeth bite as his lower lip and Dean does what he always does when it comes to Sammy.

He gives in.


End file.
